


make your good love known to me (or just tell me bout your day)

by Stars_Sky_See



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (not the main focus but I make sure to make it very clear), Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, At least I think it's light you tell me, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley being an abusive plant dad, Crowley knew Aziraphale but did he tho?, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Oh my god so many pet names you wouldnt believe it, Pet Names, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), he did, he's just repressed, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 01:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stars_Sky_See/pseuds/Stars_Sky_See
Summary: The world is filled with all sort of sensations. Crowley is learning to explore all the best ones in the South Downs with Aziraphale, even when he tries very hard not to.





	make your good love known to me (or just tell me bout your day)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Okay, so this is the first time I've written anything like this in a very, very long time. Good Omens started a fire in me and now that I've finally finished writing this, I just want to keep going. This is literally the product of me feeling kind of angsty one day along with me having this image of my head of Aziraphale and Crowley's South Downs cottage with wildflowers running wild at the front door and chickens in the backyard and, of course, my newfound intense love of these two besotted idiots. I'm also new to using footnotes so if anything is wonky let me know.
> 
> Also, if I haven't made it obvious enough, Aziraphale is chubby and round and so soft. Skinny Omens is dead here. And yes, the title is from a Hozier song. The song is As It Was off his Wasteland, Baby album!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!

If you listen well and close, anywhere you are, you can hear the hum of a bee as it busies itself doing whatever it is bees do. Pollinating a flower of some kind, perhaps.

_ “Crowley, you’re going to have to stop yelling at the poppies so much. You’re scaring off the bees.” _

If you look well and close, anywhere you are, tilt your head up to the sky. You’ll see the clouds moving slowly, turning about the sky like breath on a cold winter day. The breath of God, perhaps. Only She could bide her time in such a way while She looks down.

_ “Aziraphale, could you push that cloud a little to the right? It’s blocking the sun— yesss, angel.” _

_ “Of course, dear.” _

Anywhere you go, take off your shoes and allow the grass to slap your naked ankles or the dirt to push itself into the grooves of your bare feet. 

_ “Anthony J Crowley, don’t you _ dare _ track dirt into our kitchen!” _

Take a deep breath of your own and inhale the salty taste of the ocean, the bitter taste of city smog, the dry taste of soil in the forest. Smell and taste are nearly one in the same, you know. Hasn’t your mother told you to plug your nose if you haven’t like the taste of something? 

“Imagine smelling a different food,” your father may say as he presses a spoonful of something to your lips. 

_ “Come now, my dear, it really isn’t bad for a first attempt.” The angel tries to reassure the demon. The kitchen air is clogged with the smell of smoke and the acidic taste of burnt food. _

_ “You might as well be plugging your nose while swallowing, angel.” The demon rolls his eyes, but stares down at the toe of his snakeskin boots, his cheeks pinkening and shoulders rolling in. _

_ These days Crowley rarely wears his sunglasses. After all, it’s only him and Aziraphale so he really doesn’t have a good excuse. _

* * *

_ “Dear, must you really continue to wear the glasses? I know they add on to your ‘aesthetic’ as you like to say, but it’s just us here.” Aziraphale was sitting on the swing in the backyard one day pretending to read his book while Crowley weeded the garden and gave a few plants a good tongue-lashing, the slackers. Aziraphale had forgotten to keep flipping the pages after a while and Crowley took notice. _

_ “Dunno. Just force of habit, I guess,” Crowley remarked off-handedly as he kneeled in the dirt. The chickens cluck in the background, eating the insects that get too close to the garden. _

_ The chains holding up the swing rattle as Aziraphale stands up and approaches Crowley, crouching down next to him and resting his elbows on his knees. _

_ “Dear,” Aziraphale starts and watches as Crowley pauses in his work before taking a breath and leaning back on his heels, sticking the trowel into the dirt beside him. The dark material of his jeans are covered in dirt and some has snuck its way under the cuffs of his gardening gloves, sticking to the sweat on his wrists. He swipes his hand across his forehead and leaves a long line of dirt there. _

_ Aziraphale can’t help but look besotted. Crowley flushes under the attention. _

_ “May I?” Aziraphale continues raises his hands towards Crowley’s face. The demon nods shakily, gulping quietly. _

_ Aziraphale brushes his hands along Crowley’s face as he reaches behind his ears to take his glasses off. _

_ “Ah, there you are, darling.” Aziraphale’s smile intensifies as Crowley’s eyes are revealed. If it were darker, he’s sure they’d be glowing. _

_ As he stands, he wipes the smudge of dirt Crowley left on his forehead with his thumb and holds the folded glasses in his other. _

_ “Just a bit of dirt. Tea?” _

* * *

_ He misses them in moments like this, where he feels too vulnerable, too obvious. Like his eyes will reveal all that he’s kept secret for the last six thousand years. Windows to the soul is right. That is, if he has a soul. _

_ The angel stands from his chair at the end of the kitchen table to console the demon, his hand coming to rest on Crowley’s back, soothingly stroking up and down. _

_ “Why don’t you lower the heat next time? Perhaps allow it all to simmer and soak rather than rushing it along? I’m sure you’ll get it with enough time.” Looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley tries not to look quite too obviously disappointed and allows himself to bask in the soft glow of his angel’s unfiltered adoration, if only for a moment. _

_ ‘Absolutely, angel,’ he wants to say. ‘You always know. I love it when you help me figure these things out. I’m completely useless when it comes to this stuff. I do it all for you, angel. I love you, angel.’ _

_ He nods and takes the comment into quiet consideration, storing it away for next time. _

Any number of places can hold any number of your senses captive, like a bird in a cage, whether it’s of the pleasant sort or decidedly not.

  
_ The front door to the cottage creaks on its hinges as two figures push through. There’s no furniture and the floorboards moan under their weight after such a long period of disuse. “Goodness, look at the kitchen! I’ve never had such space at the shop. Oh, imagine the things we could do in here1!" _

_ The angel is immediately drawn to the space and makes a beeline for the window over the sink, throwing it open. Very little actually distinguishes it as a kitchen, but as soon as the angel says so, the room immediately smells of steaming foods and the heat of a warming oven in the summer is felt and it suffocates the cool air from the open window. One can easily imagine the aged wooden counter-top covered in breadcrumbs and flour, the angel, red in the face as he presses into dough that will no doubt soon become some kind of bread or pastry. _

_ “It’s nearly as bloody dusty in here as the shop.” Crowley remarks watching the dust float through a crooked beam of sunlight pushing into the vacant sitting room. He raises his lip and lowers his eyebrows just enough to scare it into fleeing under the floorboards. _

_ “Oh, hush. I find it all rather homey. Why don’t you go take a look at the greenroom. I’m quite sure there’s one in the study down the hall,” Aziraphale huffs with just enough fondness to cover the irritation. _

_ “We’ve already bought the place, sweetheart, you don’t need to convince me.” Crowley walks through the threshold into the kitchen behind Aziraphale. He aches to wrap his arms around the rise of Aziraphale’s belly. _

_ He doesn’t, instead remaining behind the angel, his fingers curling at his sides for a moment before he forces them still. _

Your wings brush the cold metal edges on the cage. The chill travels down the shaft of a single feather until it spreads throughout the entire wing and you’re overtaken with the urge to fly. You lost the ability long ago. The feeling still consumes you. Your talons curl around the wooden perch and you shift back and forth with unease. Even if someone opens the door, you’ve got nowhere to go.

_ Crowley stands on the edge of the dock with his toes dangling over the edge. It’d been quite a hike out here, across sharp rocks and a whole pool of muck. He’s sure he sliced open the bottoms of his feet now that he stands still. _

_ The wood is old, falling apart really, and there are little splinters burying themselves in his raw and bloody skin. The ocean water licks at his toes and the salt burned. _

_ Looking out over the water, there’s nothing to see but waves gently lapping at the air. Maybe if he stood here in this spot for long enough, he’d see a fish jump. Instead, he turns his attention to the sky to watch the stars. The stars he’d created. If he stood here_ _long enough, eyes turned to the sky, one would flicker out eventually. _

_ Taking a deep breath, he could taste the ozone, the salt, the pollution. Maybe Aziraphale could block it out when he ate, if he ever discovered the same thing, but Crowley couldn’t. In London he tasted the ash and smog and sweat of the city tainting the food he often ordered when dining out. Part of the reason he never raised a fuss when Aziraphale eventually ate off his plate. Not to mention to look on his angel’s face when he thought he was sneaking a bite. _

_ As much as it could be a curse, Crowley sometimes thought about what the stars might taste like up close. What they’d taste like if he could leave his human tendencies behind, spread his wings and take off into the sky. Feel the wind in-between every individual feather like a dog’s tongue licking peanut butter from the space between your fingers. The coolness of the air spreading a trail of goosebumps up the back of his neck under his hair (he’d grown it out longer again since they’d moved down here. Aziraphale ran his fingers through it more often when it was longer). The warmth and colorful fire of a nebula threatening to consume him. Allow the same feelings given to him by Her when he first began manipulating space and matter. _

_ Now, though, with no connection to Hell or Heaven, there’s no way he could ever leave Earth, leave behind his corporation to rot. He certainly couldn’t drag it along with him. The pressure would crush the lungs as he left the atmosphere. He’d never get a new one. He’d be alone in space with his stars. No angel in sight. _

Inside the cage, there’s another. And if that isn’t enough, then what is? To brush your wings against not metal but the wings of another. To dream not of a life outside but a better one for inside.

_ “Crowley, dear, why don’t you come back inside? It’s getting rather cold out here and you didn’t put on any shoes,” Aziraphale murmurs quietly from somewhere over Crowley’s shoulder and he feels some kind of sticky, sick emotion clog up his throat. His eyes _ feel _ wetter even without the pool of tears lingering in his tear ducts. The tenderness and delicate tone Aziraphale uses does that to him every now and again. Overwhelms him. So he just doesn’t respond and instead holds his breath, staring down at his feet. He tastes his angel’s anxiety, worry, hesitation. It bites into his tongue and rattles his teeth. _

_ “Goodness, Crowley, you’re bleeding!” Aziraphale’s voice raises in pitch with his own emotions. Sensible shoes tap against the wood as he forgets to worry about carefully approaching Crowley and instead frets over the inky black blood staining the dock. He’s suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley and Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him, questioning and confused. He wants to reach out, Crowley knows, but is holding himself back. _

_ He should’ve miracled the cuts gone long ago rather than letting his blood drain into the wood, tainting it. _

_ Aziraphale lets out a slow, soft sigh and Crowley holds in an undignified whine watching Aziraphale’s whole body move with the force of his breath. His angel is so beautiful. Big and round and soft. _

_ Crowley stares at both their reflections, his own eyes glaring back at him. _

_ “I thought you wanted this,” Aziraphale says sadly. It feels he’s jammed a metal fork into an electrical socket and Crowley is the one holding it, jolting him. _

_ He wants to reply, _ say _ something. There are actually a great many things he wants to say starting along the lines of ‘I _ do _ want this. I’ve wanted this forever’ and ending with ‘I want this but I don’t trust myself. I want this so bad it hurts, but I can’t have it in this universe. Maybe in another, but we’re trapped in this one.’ _

_ Crowley is so busy rooting through all the things he could say and then deciding he could never say any of them outloud that Aziraphale starts talking first. _

_ “Of course, I noticed when I first mentioned moving down here you seemed a bit apprehensive, but I had rather sprung the whole thing on you and you seemed so _ happy _ when we actually had everything inside. I thought it really started to feel like home. One that was just for us. No Above or Below to tsk at us. No pressing responsibility to tempt this many people or perform that many miracles. No more people even. There are so few out here that it’s practically just us. And I thought that you’d like that. After all this time, it’s _ finally _ just us. Was I wrong?” Aziraphale’s eyes meet his own in the water. He runs his eyes down every precious, round bit of his angel. All the bits that went out of fashion with humanity decades ago. Ever changing, that lot. Crowley was always able to keep up with them, but Aziraphale had trouble. Too fast, too fast. _

_ “‘S just different.” Crowley shrugs and doesn’t give any more of an explanation. He doesn’t want to muck it up, any of it, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. _

_ “I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate. Different than London? Different living together? Is it too much? I thought laying with you at night helped with the nightmares. I’ve heard you cry out for me.” Aziraphale says gently, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. _

_ Crowley had always had his suspicions, but now he knows for sure. He almost feels guilty, like Aziraphale is forcing himself to comfort Crowley. Like it’s a responsibility or and irritant that needs resolving. He knows as soon as the thought enters his head that it’s simply untrue, but it’s still difficult to convince himself. _

_ “I thought spending more time together was good. Better.” _

_ Why is this so hard? Nothing he thinks to say is enough. Nothing feels adequate. _

_ “Was I wrong?” He says again. _

_ “For Someone’s sake, it’s not that at all, angel!” He speaks, half shouting. His angel just sounds so _ sad, _ so resigned, like it’s already too late. _

_ “It’s just everything is different. Every taste, every smell, every bloody breeze coming off the blessed ocean. And being here with you, I don’t…” He trails off and watches his hands twitching at his side, his knees shaking under his weight, his eyes glimmer in the dark. _

_ He shoves his hands in his pockets more forcefully than he strictly needs to. He wants to touch so badly, throw his arms around Aziraphale and hold him like a lover, sweet and tender. _

_ “Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers and breaks the eye contact he’s held with Crowley in the water, instead looking up at him. The angel’s face is pinched in angst. _

_ “I don’t want to break this,” he says. “I don’t want to go too fast.” _

_ “Oh, Crowley.” It’s nearly a sob when his name leaves Aziraphale’s lips and Crowley wants nothing than to soak it up with his own. He watches as Aziraphale’s reflection reaches its hand out and puts it in Crowley’s pocket, tangling their fingers together within the confines of the fabric. _

_ “I don’t think your capable of breaking my heart quite like I’ve broken yours.” Crowley gulps. Apparently, he’s slightly more obvious than he thought. _

_ Too fast. You go too fast. _

_ “I know what I said,” Aziraphale says, like he knows exactly what Crowley is thinking, “and I know how much it hurt you. Even with those ridiculous sunglasses I could puzzle it out often enough. That pout on you face, dear. All too telling I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles a bit. “But I’m catching up. That’s why I wanted to come here. No mess, no noise. All the time in the world to make up for my hesitance. Don’t give up on me.” Aziraphale is rubbing small circles into the top of his thumb. Crowley is doing all he can not to weep at the feeling of his angel’s skin touch his own. _

_ Aziraphale pulls both their hands from Crowley’s pocket and Crowley finally looks up from their reflection. Aziraphale gently squeezes the demon’s hand before releasing his grip. Crowley swears he can feel his heart stop beating. Panic grips him as he scrambles for something to say, scared that he missed his chance despite what Aziraphale said. Ridiculous, of course, because the moment Crowley opens his mouth to try and spit up something meaningful, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s wrist in both hands like he’s holding a baby bird and kisses the palm. _

_ Crowley immediately sputters a bunch of nonsense. _

_ “Love me?” He croaks and steps forward into Aziraphale’s space before he can think about it. He knows the answer. He’s known somewhere deep down, trying to keep himself from acknowledging it. _

_ Too fast. _

_ But suddenly he’s completely submerged in the feeling of Aziraphale’s unwavering affection, forced to accept it. He almost feels his lungs shriveling standing so close. It felt like his heart was jumping around his ribcage. _

_ “Of course, dear.” _

_ “Could you say it? Please.” _

_ “I love you.” Crowley whimpered a very undemon-like whimper and Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile brighter than any star Crowley could’ve ever created. _

_ “Again?” _

_ “I love you, my beautiful beau.” Crowley bit down on a smile of his own and stops himself from completely melting under the complement, snaking the hand Aziraphale wasn’t hold over the angel’s shoulder, pulling him close. _

_ “Again.” _

_ “I love you, my dashing demon. My handsome serpent. Clever boy.” His smile breaks out across his face. He can’t help it. Crowley slots his nose in carefully next to his angel’s as his knees go weak and angel continues to sing his praise. The warmth from Aziraphale’s plush body rolls off in waves and it feels like Crowley is standing just beyond the reaches of a flaming blaze, just on the edges of a celestial sunbeam before it begins to burn. This warmth would never burn. _

_ “Can I kiss you, angel?” Crowley asks softly, allowing for a serious moment and pushing down the gooey feeling in his chest. Crowley saw what Heaven was like. Empty and cold. In Hell, everyone was always pushing and shoving and _ touching _ each other. Crowley knew well what it was like to fight a crowd, everyone constantly brushing arms and shoulders, stumbling along like zombies. Certainly in no way romantic, but the touch was there. He had that. Aziraphale may want to catch up, but Heaven was in no way like Hell and that meant Crowley wasn’t going to push beyond what sensations Aziraphale could process. He had all the patience in the world for his angel. _

_ Aziraphale’s cheeks grew pink and there was a new sort of look in his eyes. A kind of yearning Crowley had seen many times, but without this intensity. Did Aziraphale always look at him with this much love? This much reverence and kindness? _

_ “I would like that very much,” And with that permission given, Crowley has to stop himself from moving faster than he’s ever moved in his entire life, all six thousand and some odd years of it. But he’s slow. A gentle press of their lips is all Crowley allows himself, pecking Aziraphale squarely on the lips and then in the corners. Honoring and venerating. Fond and amorous. _

_ “Really, my dear, I can actually go faster.” Aziraphale’s words buzz against his lips and then Aziraphale is pressing a soft kiss to his lips that quickly grows in strength until he’s taking charge and pressing his chest to Crowley’s, their lips locked fiercely together. Crowley stumbles backward a step with the force of it. _

_ Just as he’s getting the hang of it, the slide of Aziraphale’s lips against his, the press, embracing the tingle that spreads throughout his limbs, Aziraphale is moving his mouth to cover different patches of skin all over Crowley’s face, worshipping. His cheeks, his forehead, his jaw. _

_ “Aziraphale…” Crowley sings his name like an psalm as Aziraphale pecks him on the side of his nose, feeling each bump with his pulp lips as if he was performing an ancient, forgotten ritual or memorizing to map out later. A sweet sort of ache accompanies the whole process before Aziraphale eventually rests head on Crowley’s shoulder, soft puffs of air caressing the side of his neck. _

_ “My dear, you’re going to be covered in freckles by morning,” he hums into Crowley’s neck and leans forward to press another kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s throat. Crowley, whining under the angel’s infinite study and ardor, tilts his head to rest atop Aziraphale’s, his nose nestled in the pile of white curls there. _

_ “Freckles?” _

_ “Mm. Haven’t you heard the old saying? Freckles are the remnants of an angel’s kisses.” _

_ “Ahh, well. In that case, I don’t suppose I mind.” Crowley ends the sentence with a kiss of his own left to wander among Aziraphale’s curls. _

_ They stand there for a few moments longer, soaking up the warmth of one another before they can both admit it’s a rather chilly night and Crowley still hasn’t got any shoes on. So they head down the dock, over the rocks (for most of which Aziraphale actually carries Crowley seeing as how torn up Crowley’s feet are. Aziraphale is absolutely horrified by the whole of it meanwhile Crowley convinces Aziraphale’s shoes not to develop any holes), and up the beach to the steps of their cottage. The plants in the window tremble and the hundreds of wildflowers swarming the front steps as Crowley instills enough fear in all of them to ensure that they don’t take mark of this moment as possible weakness. _

_ “Don’t think this is reason for you to start drooping or you’ll all end up in the paper shredder,” he says with a particularly menacing glare, all the while he has his legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist and his arms over the angel’s shoulders. _

_ The lights in the front room were left on and the tartan settee in the center of it is illuminated by the light of a fire burning brightly in the fireplace. Neither of them are quite sure who was the one to light it, not that it matters. _

_ Soon enough, they find themselves relaxing on the sofa and soaking up the heat of the fire. The front door to the cottage creaks on its hinges as two figures push through. There’s no furniture and the floorboards moan under their weight after such a long period of disuse. Neither of them are quite sure who was the one to light it, not that it 2 matters. Aziraphale uses the light to read while Crowley rests his head in Aziraphale’s lap with his face buried in his angel’s tummy. There’s a rather well-crafted afgan thrown over top of him and he’s drawn it all the way up to his chin. One of Aziraphale’s hands balances his book and the other has tangled itself into Crowley’s wind-swept hair. _

_ “I do want this, you know,” Crowley says under the crackle of the fire. The rumble of it travels up Aziraphale’s body. He hums contentedly at the feeling. _

_ “I want to be here. With you.” He doesn’t actually know if Aziraphale has any idea what he’s saying, but maybe that’s why it feels so much easier. His angel was so open with him, so sympathetic and considerate and caring. It feels like he deserves to hear all the lovely, very undemonic thoughts Crowley has been holding onto. _

_ “I want to wake up to you every morning in our bed. I never want to wake up alone. I don’t want you to read on the sofa. Not ever again. Not since I realized what I was missing out on. Knowing you’re there next to me, without even touching, I can sleep easy. _

_ “I want you to help me when I bollocks up a meal. You’re so good at helping me, angel. I want to see that look on your face when I yell at my plants by the window seat and the sunroom and out in the garden with the poppies and daisies and your basil. I take it easy on the basil just because it’s yours.” Crowley whispers the last part like it’s a secret that Aziraphale didn’t already know. _

_ “You go all cool, pinched mouth, disapproving ‘round the eyes. Couldn’t miss it for a mile. And don’t even get me started on your _ smile _ , angel. I could go on for millennia about your bloody smile. Lights up the whole room, it does.” It all just rolls off his tongue so easy, once he’s started. It’s like a confession, a prayer to the one person he knows will listen. The only person he wants to hear him. _

_ “And whatever’s here that’s left of me, if you want, they’re yours, sweetheart. All the broken bits and the good bits — whatever good bits you can find — you can have them. I’d give you the moon and the sky if I could. I’d give you all my stars.” It feels like he’s bleeding out again, a constant, steady stream trickling from his lips, but it doesn’t burn with the prickle of salt or splinters. _

_ “All of that is complete rubbish compared to having you, darling.” Aziraphale reassures him. At some point, must’ve put down his book because while one hand combs reassuringly through his hair, the other is cupping the side of Crowley’s face that’s flush against Aziraphale’s belly, forcing Crowley to look up at him. Crowley shivers. Whether from the rapture of being the angel’s sole focus or the scrape of Aziraphale’s primly manicured nails against his scalp he doesn’t know. Perhaps both. _

_ “I love you,” he says, with all the subtlety and grace of a new-born fawn. The demon nearly chokes on the words. Aziraphale smiles slyly. _

_ “Again.” _

_ “You absolute bastard.” _

_ “Oh hush, love.” _

_ “I love you.” _

_ “I love you too.” _

In the South Downs, if you stop and stare over the top of a hill high enough to overlook the village, you’ll see, hear, and feel many of the same things you’d hear in similar places around the world — the bees, clear skies, soft grass, the sea breeze dragging its wispy fingers through your hair — but there are also a great many things that you’ll never experience anywhere else. 

There is something about the honey produced by the bees that leaves much to be desired despite the beauty of the flowers the pollen is gathered from. Fear chokes the sweetness right out and replaces it a metallic, acrid taste that lingers in the back of your throat. That sort of fear can only be accomplished through a great deal of terror and trauma, something one peculiar resident is rather proud of.

Unfortunately, only so much can be said for the weather any English village, but once in a while, it seems like the patter of rain lasts longer in one part of the village than the other. A bustling garden needs lots of water, after all.

The grass is always soft during the summer months. It grows long enough to brush the cuffs of rolled up jeans and the ripening, golden wheat curls around your fingers. Although, one should always watch carefully rustling in weeds and listen for a hissing among the flowering flax. Neighbors in the area often report seeing a large black snake with striking yellow eyes. Get too close and you’ll find yourself spinning around, walking back in the opposite direction. Only a moment before you reach out your hand, you’ll find yourself at home sitting in that comfortable chair in the sitting room watching telly with little idea of how you got there.

The wind carries more than the scent of the oceans and the taste of salt. Hushed voices and whispered confessions of love travel alongside loose feathers and leaves. The feather is not one you’ve seen on any sort of bird in the area and leaves spread rumors they have no business spreading.

If you close your eyes, if you just close your eyes and allow yourself to be held by the warmth of the sun. 

The chill of the breeze.

The phantom feeling of fingers on your shoulder blades, coaxing you to stand taller and fly higher. 

The love from some ineffable, ethereal, occult heart.

If you close your eyes at just the precise time on that hill in the South Downs, its secrets will be revealed to you if you take the time to listen.

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. The floorboards still creek the same as they did when they first moved in. Crowley would’ve miracled them silent, but Aziraphale said it gave the cottage “character and personality” so he left them alone.Back
> 
>   
1\. Crowley tried not to think about the graphic implications of that phrase, even if said graphic activities were not, that is to say, his “thing”. Back


End file.
